


You're Secondhand Smoke

by sophomorestump



Series: Band S/A [6]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, Cancer, Death, Depression, Gay, Guilt, Hospitals, Lung Cancer, M/M, POV Third Person, Paranoia, Sad, Silence, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 08:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7427182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophomorestump/pseuds/sophomorestump
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete feels incredible guilt that he just can't seem to quit smoking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Secondhand Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> final time: publication date is when this was written

Pete had a rough life but it was nothing compared to Patrick now.

Pete had a story stereotypical enough to make him sick. Bipolar disorder, paranoia, anxiety disorders. School trouble as a kid. A concoction of pills every day and suicide on his mind. He didn't like to talk about it, though not because it made him upset or uncomfortable. The only way it got to him was a worry creeping up his spine telling him that everyone thought his story was cliché and that he was making it up.

Patrick knew. Of course he did. Patrick knew everything. Pete's eyes were not like a book, but they were like ancient writing done on papyrus with some sort of carving tool; they gave you a general sense of anything but never the details because those were lost in the clouds.

Yet Patrick understood Pete better than anyone. Patrick was one of the kindest people Pete had ever met. He always tried to empathize, lived to cheer up others, and saw past Pete's smiley façade like no one else. Pete, in every way, envied him. Pete was like a huge tornado that never left the ground. He tore up everyone's happiness, everyone's comfort, and threw everyone away. Patrick, on the other hand, seemed to Pete to be the definition itself of comfort.

Patrick would never know how badly Pete wanted to be him.

Now more than ever, in fact. It would seem ridiculous to almost anyone. But yes, Pete wanted to switch with Patrick worse than he ever had and it was all because he had, simply, broken Patrick.

Pete smoked. It was another piece of his ever-so-typical story. He was disgusted by his own addiction but it was like the smoke was his security blanket and every time he tried to push it aside, the blanket would only squeeze him, so tightly he couldn't get away if he tried. Every time he stumbled outside for a cigarette he would merely mumble something incoherent to Patrick so that he wouldn't have to admit what they both knew well: Pete was addicted and in far too deep to get out as easily as he wished.

And speaking of which, Patrick always followed him out. Patrick seemed to have little to no problem going out of his way to assure Pete's safely and that fact further fueled Pete's jealousy. Yes. Patrick always trailed directly behind Pete whenever he left to have a smoke because Patrick was always so frightened that if he didn't, Pete would never stop. Pete had told him that he was his only reason to stop, which Patrick at first denied, but then decided to embrace. Most of the time, no words were exchanged. Patrick would sit on the step as Pete leaned against the building and dug through his pocket for a lighter. Pete usually couldn't even bring himself to look down at the small, pale boy who carried some mixture of guilt, fear, and sadness in his eyes. It just put more thoughts of quitting into Pete's mind that he knew he would never successfully act on. Every once in a while, Patrick would whisper, "You're gonna be okay, Pete." It made Pete's heart flutter and sink both at the same time somehow. He didn't think it was true, but had Patrick ever lied to him?

All of these things hit Pete like bullets the day his heart, soul, and anything else he had left shattered. Patrick had cancer. Lung cancer. The doctor informed them, clearly bracing himself for the worst reaction, but Patrick barely did anything at all. He stared at the tile on the floor. He traced the edges, counting each inch. He looked the doctor in the eye. "Okay."

Okay? No way, Pete thought. Patrick was fairly open with his emotions and obviously no one is okay with having cancer, especially in a stage as late as his own. Yet even when they returned home, Patrick just sat on the couch, turned on the TV, acted like nothing had happened at all. He was surely just trying to convince himself he would turn out okay. Pete sat beside him. He knew the truth. This was all his own fault. Secondhand smoke was dangerous, and he was sure that being beside a smoker ten times a day while he lit up a cigarette was dangerous too. He was sure it was all his fault.

Pete was, slowly, going to kill his boyfriend.

But neither of them said a word. All that day Pete wondered what Patrick was really feeling. It only came out that night. For the first night in a year, they slept facing away from each other, not touching at all. Pete was lying awake, counting each minute and letting the misery of it all really sink in. He could hear Patrick crying. He was obviously trying to muffle his sobs, but failed miserably.

It went on like that every night for a month.

Only one thing was different than that night, other than multiple days Patrick spent in the hospital: Pete wondered what he was doing. He and Patrick had hardly spoken to each other about the cancer besides in a professional manner. Pete knew he was wasting his last days with the love of his life. They were falling between his fingers like grains of sand, one at a time but quicker than he could count. Now he really felt like he was trapped in the hourglass, and yet each time he thought about bringing up his feelings, his tongue froze and his brain flipped the panic switch. Never would it be discussed as long as he had a say in it. It upset him.

It amazed Pete all the time that Patrick, despite his explosive temper and the way he felt things intensely, seemed to still want to smile and only help Pete.

And one night, it was finally mentioned.

Pete sat in their room in the dark. It was sunset and the beautiful yellows and oranges of the sky were desperately trying to break through the curtain, but to no avail. Pete's eyes watered but not a tear fell. Pete had no clue why. On the inside, he was screaming; his internal voice tearing at his intestines, eating him away, leaving him as just a pile of dust.

Pete's pose never altered for even a moment. He sat on the edge of the bed, back to the covered window, legs apart and hands on his knees. His head was fixated at a downward angle. Sometimes his focus would shift to his sock-covered feet or each little fiber making up the carpet. He could hardly believe that the fibers supported him or that his feet carried him. It all felt so far away from his position on the mattress. Eventually he realized none of it mattered. What mattered was Patrick and Patrick was the only thing that wouldn't last. His feet would continue to transport him and the carpet would still act as his support but Patrick never would be his support again.

Pete cursed himself silently. His dull, lifeless eyes rolled over the room. All he ever did was drag Patrick down and yet he stayed. Pete wondered if he was an anchor. If so, that would mean Patrick wasn't choosing to stay, but rather Pete was holding him in place. He despised himself for keeping Patrick hostage for the last few months of the younger boy's precious life. They wouldn't even be his last few months if it wasn't for Pete.

At the very least, Pete prayed on the daily. Though he wasn't religious he figured that even the smallest things he could do for Patrick would help, such as asking a bigger being to swoop in at the last second and catch him. And catch both of them. If it was the end of Patrick, it might as well have been the end of Pete.

Pete heard the lock of the front door click loudly and then swing open abruptly. Patrick, as usual, took his time settling himself in. Naturally, once he did, he wanted to look for Pete. He guessed it wasn't necessarily "looking for him" if he knew he would be in their shared room. That was like Pete's safe place. In fact, Pete's position didn't surprise Patrick either. Pete didn't look up despite hearing Patrick's feet shuffling along the carpet.

Patrick smiled a bit, wryly, hoping he could lighten the mood for himself, before slowly moving in to sit beside his boyfriend. The old mattress springs groaned beneath his weight, caving in and forcing Pete to move closer. Patrick wrapped his warm arms around Pete. He had been extra worried about Pete lately. Pete hadn't even been writing. That was what he always did when he felt anything other than happiness. He wrote. Whenever Pete's finger's touched his notebook, they suddenly felt cold. To Pete, that was the paper telling him, "Hey, dude. You're alive." But Pete didn't feel alive anymore.

Pete still didn't move. Patrick buried his head in the taller boy's shoulder, kissing it gently. Pete tensed immediately. "I love you," Patrick cooed softly. "Okay? I hope you're hearing me at all. This is not your fault, I promise. And I love you. That's all I want to think about right now. How much I love you."

But Pete gave no response so Patrick didn't keep prying. This time, the papyrus script embedded in Pete's pupils turned into an open book with big, clear font. Patrick could see everything and for the first time, he wished he couldn't.

Patrick had to pull Pete off the bed, slip his clothes off, and lay him down because Pete was just totally dead inside by this point. Patrick hoped and prayed he would be better in the morning. He crawled under the covers too and curled up around the naked man beside him. "Goodnight, my love," he sighed, hoping Pete was asleep or soon going to be.

And it was only two days later that Patrick was in the hospital again. Pete and Patrick both practically lived at the hospital. Patrick for obvious reasons and Pete because he refused to leave Patrick's side. They hardly ever talked about the cancer itself unless Pete insisted on waiting on Patrick and said, "I need to, I'm the reason you're here in the first place." Patrick would give a signature eye roll and just go with it because he knew how awfully stubborn Pete got.

Patrick was only in the hospital for three days but the doctors told Pete not to visit the first two. He spent both days at home, in his room, under the sheets, staring at the wall. It was more boring than watching paint dry but doing anything else was just plain painful. Everything reminded him of Patrick and everything stimulated him enough that he thought too deeply about it. He would do anything to calm his mind, even if that thing was nothing. He had given up.

The last day, Pete showed up the minute visitors were allowed in. He tried not to make a big deal of how much he wanted to be there for Patrick. Patrick was there for him so much that this was hardly making it up to him.

Patrick looked more sickly than ever when Pete walked into the small room taken up mostly by Patrick's bed. Patrick's eyelids barely managed to keep themselves open and his breathing was so shallow Pete was surprised it was enough oxygen to power his brain.

They just stared at each other for a while. Usually they talked more in the hospital than anywhere else. But this time it felt wrong. What was there to say anyway? The faint clicking of the ceiling fan slowly turning and the soft beeping of the heart monitor in the corner was noise enough.

Patrick broke the silence, as usual. "I love you, Pete."

"I love you, Patrick. I love you so much. I'm so sorry I did this to you. I...I burdened you with my own mental health for years and in the end just gave you some disease. I'm so fucking sorry, Patrick, and I love you."

"Pete, will you quit it? I didn't take care of you out of pity or whatever bullshit you think. I wanted to help you out because I fucking hate seeing you feeling shitty. You don't deserve that, baby. You don't. And I don't blame you for anything." There was a moment of silence that seemed to stretch on forever. "And I love you too."

Patrick's eyes were closed now. He slept a lot of the time. He loved sleeping before he got sick but now with this, he practically slept all his days away. It stressed Pete out because he wanted to spend time with Patrick, but he knew he shouldn't complain because Patrick surely needed all the rest.

It was quickly that the steady beeps were replaced with a single, long one, but when it did Pete hardly reacted at first because he couldn't even process it. But soon doctors were rushing in to try to save Patrick in the last moments possible and it was then that Pete's entire world shattered, the metaphorical glass pieces surrounding his feet and threatening to cut him no matter which direction he took a step in.

Pete leapt up from his chair and tried to get a look at Patrick. He started screaming. "No! No! Fuck! He can't die! He fucking can't! Patrick, can you fucking hear me?! God, you asshole, get up! Get the fuck up! You were doing so well! You aren't supposed to die! Not yet! Fucking please!" The tears were flowing unstoppably, dripping onto Pete's sweater and soaking into this skin. "Patrick! PATRICK! Get the fuck up! I'm gonna kick your ass, Patrick. You better fucking get up. You better..."

He sat back down in his chair. The adrenaline was starting to cool off and he knew that was it.

Patrick was dead.

The doctors all finally pulled away and one turned to Pete. "I'm very sorry," she said. She appeared sincere, sorrow filling her eyes and disappointment dripping from her tongue with each word. Pete shut his own eyes, thinking maybe it would block the tears from escaping. Now it was coming to him again and he was getting a rush all over again.

Once more he shot up. "No! What the fuck?! He's not dead! He's not! Patrick?! Fucking answer me, you asshole! Fuck! You've been so healthy! Why?! Why?! Get the fuck up!" He turned around and hit his head to the wall, an impulsive action, he would admit, but oddly it made him feel better. "Fuck..."

The same woman repeated, "I'm so sorry," and began to urge him out of the room.

Pete was not happy about this.

"NO! Fuck you! Fuck! You! You dick, let me see my boyfriend! Please! Fuck you! Let me see him!"

She continued pushing him out of the door. "Sir, please. There's really nothing we can do, and your exit is required. I wish I could let you stay. Really. I do. And I wish we could have saved him. But it's over now, and you need to leave." By this point they were out the door, so the doctor gave Pete one last shove and slammed the door before he could even realize he had lost.

All Pete could think to do was collapse to the floor.

Patrick was dead, so so was Pete.


End file.
